


One Foot Out The Door

by Merixcil



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alexander Hamilton is a cheating arsehole, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Cheating, Eliza Schuyler deserved better, F/M, Fluffy Hate, Hate Fluff, Infidelity, M/M, Thomas Jefferson is a lonely douchebag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-29
Updated: 2016-12-29
Packaged: 2018-09-13 04:25:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9106531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Merixcil/pseuds/Merixcil
Summary: Alex makes a lot of mistakes. To the untrained eye they all look the same, but no two indiscretions ever quite match up. Take Jefferson, for example, he's in a class of his own.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tena_kookie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tena_kookie/gifts).



> A couple of things before we begin:  
> 1\. I failed to get this up on Christmas Day and I'm really super sorry about that  
> 2\. I was prompted for fluff and this is not a pairing that I find easy to write particularly sweetly. As such I have tried to create a fluff/hate dynamic - I hope it's fluffy enough for you  
> 3\. There is a whole lot of cheating in this fic and if that's not you're thing I am very sorry. It's not excused or condoned it's just sort of there  
> 4\. I hope you had a really good Christmas

**25 th of December 2014**

Christmas on St Croix was a world away from the American Yuletide, or so Alex has to assume from what he recalls of his childhood. All he has to go on are a handful of vague memories of his mother, framed by candlelight, pretending that palm trees could pass for fir. There were no old men dressed up as Father Christmas (too hot) and no turkey (too expensive). It was a pale imitation of the real thing, he doesn’t mind admitting it.

“Alexander, dear. Can you call the kids to the table?” Alex looks up from his place on the couch, where he has been nursing a large brandy and paying the most cursory of attention to the television. Love Actually – it’s terrible, but there’s something to be said about the calm regularity with which it appears over the holidays.

Eliza towers over him, face flushed from the kitchen. Alex isn’t allowed to help with Christmas dinner, she and her father retreat into a storm of roasting meat and half a hundred different vegetables every year. She’s grinning, triumph flashing in her dark eyes – they must be in for a treat.

The children are being carefully corralled away from their last few presents by their grandmother. Catherine looks pleadingly in Alex’s direction as she tries with little success to get the four year old Angelica’s attention.

“Here’s daddy!” Catherine crows, relieved. Philip just about manages not to break concentration as he reaches for a chocolate from the tree. He thinks no one’s looking, he has so much to learn.

Scooping up his daughter and reaching for his son’s hand, Alexander nods towards the dining room, “dinner time! I hope you guys are hungry because mummy and grandpa have made us so much food.”

“Will there be crackers?” Philip asks, shoving the chocolate into his back pocket. Alex doesn’t have the heart to take it from him.

“Crackers and turkey and potatoes-“

“Potatoes!” Angelica giggles with glee. They're her favourite food, the very best. It’s going to be a good few years before she switches allegiance to chocolate.

The table it piled high with food, the smell of mince pies in the oven wafts through from the kitchen as Eliza steps into the glow of the fairy lights lining the mantelpiece. They’ll be ready in time for pudding, warm and rich, and there won’t be a palm tree in sight.

 

 

 

**5 th of January 2015**

The New Year brings new challenges, as always. Alex rolls the sentiment around his tongue, deciding whether he should say as much to Washington. It feels like a cliché, but the President’s pretty good at clichés, handing out advice that drips with parental predictability.

Besides, the challenge is mostly Alex’s. It’s bitter, vibrant, very purple. It speaks in a lazy southern drawl and doesn’t use big words, but it’s smart, dear Lord is it smart.

Washington glances at Alex across the back seat of the Presidential limo – it’s probably unseemly for the treasury secretary to spend so much time in direct contact with the leader of the free world but that’s how trust works. The nation can’t expect to elect an independent with extreme anti partisan leanings without him developing some sort of personal support system.

“What do you think of Thomas Jefferson?” Washington asks.

Alex could laugh, what does he think of Thomas Jefferson? He thinks he’s dangerous, but only in the spotlight. He has ideas about the common people that could go to the common people’s heads. Alex thinks he’s manipulative. He thinks he has no understanding of economics. He thinks he wouldn’t be nearly so popular if he weren’t so obnoxiously good looking, the tabloids lap that shit up. A Good Old Boy with a heart of gold and money to burn, a proper Southern Gentleman. Disgusting.

That’s the way this works: Washington trusts Alex and Alex doesn’t trust the people they serve to think for themselves. He finds Jefferson’s optimism unnerving.

It’s bad form to speak so bluntly, and Washington’s trying to be pragmatic in picking popular politicians from both sides of the house to fill his cabinet. The President is looking for affirmation and cooperation. Alex cocks his head, “he’s a smart guy.”

Washington lets out a bark of laughter, “you hate him.”

Being an open book has saved Alex a lot of time over the years.

 

 

 

**23 rd of May 2015**

Work parties are invariably awful, and they’re even worse when they’re good. At least when they retain the office veneer of formality it’s easy enough to slip away after a couple of drinks but this is a nightmare. Thomas Jefferson’s annual summer party has traditionally only been open to Republicans, but this year the government has diversified and all sorts of folk from all over the political spectrum have made their way to Monticello. They're laughing and smiling and the music's good, it's everything Alex was hoping to avoid. 

Monticello is an old plantation that likes to talk about its farming history without mentioning the slaves that tilled the ground. It’s full of high ceilings and Romanesque sculpture and Alex isn't sure if he finds it hideous or rather nice. He can’t imagine growing up in a house like this, the kind of things that would do to a person’s opinion of themselves.

“You’re not drinking,” Jefferson appears out of nowhere and presses a bright red cocktail into Alex’s hands.

Alex sniffs at it, detects strawberries and triple sec. Jefferson’s cocktails are a regular feature of any work related celebration, they are always entirely too sweet and rather delicious. Everyone gets drunk.

Like right now, everyone is more or less shitfaced. Washington is trying to hold it together across the other side of the room, but there’s a distinct blush gracing his cheeks as he leans in to speak to  James Madison.

Madison looks like he might be about to cry. He’s not a particularly strong willed man. Five years ago Alex might have gone over to help him out of an imposing social situation, like having to deal with a drunk President, but they’ve fallen a long way out since then. Alex knows what Madison’s handwriting looks like, he’s not sure he ever understood him much deeper than that.

Jefferson is still hovering at Alex’s shoulder, grinning down at him like he might pounce at any moment. The house is surrounded by security, if things got ugly they would be broken apart in a heartbeat, but that doesn’t stop the temptation of a brawl hanging in the air between them.

Getting to where Alex has gotten in DC while carrying such a short fuse is a particularly impressive achievement, if he says so himself. Jefferson on the other hand is infuriatingly patient, and eternally pleasant in a superficial sort of way. The press obsess over their wildly differing opinions on national finance and international relations, and Jefferson bows deep, smiles, and watches them all eat from the palm of his hands. “What’s the odd political difference amongst friends?”

They are not friends, they never will be. Alex wants to go for Jefferson’s throat but Jefferson keeps his weak spots well hidden.

“Y’know,” Jefferson starts, leaning in to absorb what little personal space Alex still had to himself. It doesn’t feel friendly or conspiratorial, it feels intimidating, “a little birdie informed me that you had – ah, how should I put this? You had a particularly close friendship back in the day with one John Laurens.”

Alex’s hand tightens over his glass. His head snaps round and he meets Jefferson’s gaze, his calm, easy to follow gaze. Nothing good can come from this. Every single morsel of information that gets fed to Jefferson comes back to bite someone in the ass, he’s just not normally so honest about who he’s targeting.

“I don’t know what you’re implying.” Alex spits.

Jefferson raises an eyebrow in mock confusion, “I just wanted to say that his father is a close friend of mine. I was sorry to hear of his passing, and I wanted you to know that if you need to talk to someone about it, I’m all ears.”

It would be funny if Jefferson didn’t play the manipulator so well. John Laurens has been dead for years, and much as he misses him Alex has put that part of his life to rest. He takes a step back, and takes a great mouthful of his drink. Absurdly sweet and delicious as ever. He doesn’t know Jefferson’s game, can only assume that bringing up old ghosts is supposed to unnerve him.

“And of course, I wanted to be sure that your wife knew the precise nature of your _friendship_. Wouldn’t want to let the cat out of the bag for dear Eliza.” Jefferson leans on the word friendship far too hard.

Of course Eliza doesn’t know, Alex isn’t stupid enough to tell his wife that he was still screwing his best friend for months after they were married. It’s complicated. It was another time and he has the rest of his life to be sorry for it, none of which he has the time to explain to Jefferson.

He makes to walk away but Jefferson catches him round the waist before he can take two steps. The first thing Alex thinks is that Jefferson is a lot stronger than he would have guessed, and the second is that their faces are uncomfortably close together.

“Tread carefully, Alex,” Jefferson beams, and plants a kiss on Alex’s cheek. It burns, and Alex burns right along with it.

 

 

 

**24 th of December 2015**

The White House is never really empty, and even when it is it’s still packed with secret servicemen standing by to protect the President. This year Washington will be back around midnight, and will actually get the big day off barring national emergencies. The last few interns flutter through the corridors, trying desperately to leave work behind them before the clock strikes twelve.

By White House standards, this is quiet. You can even find yourself a room, lock the door behind you and for once in a year enjoy a moment's solitude within these walls.

Alex is not enjoying any such solitude, though he is enjoying himself.

Well he’s sort of enjoying himself, and sort of hating himself. He’s trying very hard not to think about the text he sent to Eliza warning her that he’d be home later than expected, and he’s rather of hoping that she’ll be busy enough with the kids tomorrow that he won’t have to look her in the eye.

“Quiet, Alex.” Jefferson hisses into the shell of his ear. Alex whimpers, his fingers trying to find something to hold onto but there’s no friction to be found on the Cabinet Room table. His trousers are around his ankles, his tie discarded and he’s wound tight enough to burst.

Behind him, Jefferson thrusts two fingers further up Alex’s ass, other hand reaching round to tug at his dick. This is awful, this is awesome. Alex has to bite his tongue to keep from yelling when he comes. “Good boy,” Jefferson purrs, as he hands over a tissue and waits for the mess to be cleaned up.

Perhaps things would be easier if Jefferson cut to the chase and demanded the favour be returned immediately, Alex thinks as he is kissed slowly and carefully, as his hair is petted. A thumb swipes across his cheek, and this is all too nice. He desperately wants some part of this to sting, to not feel easy. Eliza deserves so much better than this, there’s nothing here he couldn’t get from her.

Or perhaps there’s one thing Eliza Schuyler cannot do for him. Alex reaches forward to feel the outline of Jefferson’s dick, half hard and huge. “You want me to…”

“I’d like that,” Jefferson says. There is no malice in his eyes, he looks at Alex like this is the only thing he ever wanted from him. Alex doesn’t know what game he’s playing, but he knows the rules, so he drops to his knees and does his due diligence.

 

 

 

**8th of March 2016**

“I have to pick the kids up from school. Then drive Philip over to football practice and Angelica’s got a friend’s birthday party later on. I figure I’ll drop her off early because I promised Peggy I’d help her with the charity auction she’s running tonight. Anyway I’m not going to be home till late so you’ll have to fend for yourself.” Eliza looks exhausted, eyes hidden behind deep bags that make up will not cover. She hasn’t been sleeping properly, but she insists it’s just a temporary thing.

Alex wants to get a little angry, remind her that this is one of a handful of nights off he’s going to have over the next few months. Surely they have enough money and relatives to ensure the kids and Peggy are taken care of. He wants to see her so badly, just her. To remind himself of all the parts of him she completes.

But Eliza likes to do things her own way or not at all, and Alex is terrifies that he’ll see his sins reflected in her eyes. So he lets her go, and crashes on the sofa with takeout pizza.

He debates calling Jefferson, pretend he has political matters to discuss and not complain when it morphs into phone sex. He doesn’t want to, but it would be so easy. Alex shoves a whole slice of pizza in his mouth at once and turns up the volume on the television.

 

 

 

**15 th of April 2016**

Monticello is just the beginning of Thomas Jefferson’s real estate portfolio. To hear him talk about it one would think he had a place in every city on Earth, and perhaps he does. If they’re all as nice as his DC apartment then they must be worth a tidy penny all told. Plush purple furniture, rich dark wood flooring, floor space for miles. Alex gets the impression that the gigantic flat screen television doesn’t see nearly as much use as the kitschy digital radio on the kitchen counter. There’s a whole room just for Jefferson to play the violin, complete with recording facilities and extensive soundproofing.

Alex has never heard Jefferson play, but he hears that he’s a fantastic musician. He can only imagine, those fingers are more than talented enough to pull his strings.

It’s early morning, not even seven and barely light outside. The apartment is quiet as anything, not so far from the city centre but just far enough out of the way that the morning traffic doesn’t disturb the calm. Jefferson isn’t a morning person, he won’t be up for another hour or so. That gives Alex plenty of time.

Time to leave. He’s stayed over at Jefferson’s a few times now, telling Eliza that he’s so busy with work he might as well sleep in his office. But he’s never stayed long enough to see his host in the morning. They fuck, they cuddle, everything is awful and Alex pretends it’s not. They sleep, but Jefferson sleeps longer.

Alex slips into his suit trousers from the day before, does his best to straighten out the creases then makes for the living room. Jefferson keeps his bed slap bang between his study and a space he calls the drawing room. Each one is equidistant from the exit, it rather depends which side of the bed Alex winds up sleeping on that dictates which way he leaves.

Today it’s the study, the only part of the apartment that the cleaners aren’t allowed at and so a complete tip. Piles of books on every subject from poetry to physics line the walls, and no available surface is without a covering of Jefferson’s handwritten notes.

Not that Alex is looking, but there seems to be very little political material in Jefferson’s study, he’s still a terrible example of a politician.

The pages lying on Jefferson’s desk prove too enticing, and the desire to catch the weak links in Jefferson’s agricultural bill are more than enough reason in Alex’s mind to go snooping. The handwriting’s rather tricky to read and he’s not had the coffee that will jump start his brain functions. But he manages well enough.

It’s a letter.

_My dearest Martha_

_I went walking down by the Potomac today, I remembered that picnic we took along the river the summer before we married. You were wearing a sundress that wasn’t designed for walking – it showed up every spot of dirt. You looked so beautiful, looking down at your skirts and laughing at yourself. I don’t think I could forget your laugh if I tried. Do you-_

Alex throws the letter down, feeling sick. He’s done enough digging on Jefferson to know that Martha died a long time ago, even before his John. The date at the top of the page is from the end of the last month, written at this desk.

It’s a hideously personal thing to have seen, Alex tries to ignore the pounding of his heart in his mouth but the bottom of his stomach is falling away. He hates being reminded that Jefferson is human, it’s even worse to discover that he’s lonely and weird in ways that defy the boundaries of his roguish eccentricity. It’s not the first time Alex has felt like this, and it won’t be the last.

The memory of words once written to Eliza flash across Alex’s mouth and it’s all he can do not to sprint for the door. He tries not to focus on the plush carpets and gold trim that line the walls to the lobby, concentrating on everything he has to do that day.

So much work, no time. Jefferson creates more work and destroys half of everything they achieve. Jefferson still writes to his dead wife.

Alex ducks into a coffee shop and pays for a flat white double shot with shaking hands. He has to be at work by eight, he should really call Eliza and reassure her that he’ll be home in time for dinner.

 

 

 

**29 th of August 2016**

Autumn arrives all at once, the changing seasons claggy and ill-fitting against Alex’s skin. He’s not a fan of the indecisive weather and bizarrely flavoured lattes that spill from every Starbucks. Summer is his season, when his island heritage gives him an advantage over his American co-workers – the sun tans his skin till it’s almost darker than Jefferson’s and it doesn’t slow him down. He’s used to it.

Always in a rush. But the girls, dear Lord the girls. Not that he can spare that much time away from the mess of cabinet meetings, office work and political infighting, but what time he can, he relishes. Eliza insists that they do family picnics whenever possible, and Alex always wears his sunglasses to disguise his line of sight. He’s been slipping in and out of Jefferson’s bed for over almost year now and she’s none the wiser. Alex isn’t in love with Jefferson, and he’s come to think of it as more of an itch to be scratched than an indiscretion. Hell, he’d been in love with John and never thought to tell her – books would be filled with all the things poor Eliza never knew.

So when Maria Reynolds comes sauntering into Alex’s life with her bright eyes and perky tits he doesn't said no. She walks the same route to work at him, to some shitty restaurant not far from the city centre.

There’s nothing like summer in the city, and there was nothing quite like her. Alex dreams of red for a week before he works up the courage to ask her if she wants to slip in through the back door while the rest of the family are out. The days are long, and the kids are in need of constant outdoor stimulation. Eliza comes home looking flushed and happy most evenings, but it’s not until she decides to take Philip and Angelica up to her father’s that the final piece falls into place.

She had wanted Alex to go with her, and he had pleaded a workload too heavy to abandon just so he could stay down in DC and smell the roses. Maria enters by the back door and he fucks her face down on the sofa, the kitchen table. He has her in the shower, her hands scrabbling for purchase on the wet tiles, he has her in the bed he’s supposed to share with Eliza.

They never fuck face to face. Alex tells himself that changes things, keeps it impersonal. Like he can’t feel the hammering of her heart in her chest or sense her sweet relief that she is not being asked for more than she wants to give. It makes him feel alive and young – he hadn’t even realised he was getting old and that puts an urgency in his bones to press on. He wants to see the bottom of this pit. For the first time in years his work is not enough to satisfy his pen and Alex fills what few waking hours he finds spare around Maria and everything else to begin work on a book.

It’s autobiographical. He figures he can change the names later.

“I’ve missed this,” Jefferson hisses through a wicked grin in his living room. Alex leans up to kiss him automatically, tries to remember the last time he was here and brings up an occasion two weeks ago.

Silly of him, Jefferson is safer than Maria, he has more to lose. It’s hard though, to continue with your old routine when something so new-fangled and bright has poured itself into the last recesses of your privacy. Sometimes Jefferson will bring up John. A half-hearted threat. The more time passes the more it feels like a question, begging to know if this is anything like it was back then. Alex bites his tongue and doesn’t say a thing, this is nothing like that, and he is nothing like Martha. You’ll go far in this life if you can restrain yourself for looking for the cracks in your composure.

Jefferson’s hands leave bruises everywhere he touches, and he doesn’t stop to check if Alex’s heart is still beating. He kisses though, and he cuddles, and in his weakest moments he witters on about his day like that’s what this is. Like they’re coming home to each other. 

Alex isn’t really sure what he’s coming home to anymore. By the time autumn hits the kids are back in town with Eliza and the heady rush of summer is fading fast. He meets Maria for the last time in a shitty motel just out of town and she gasps to see hand prints lining his sides. She draws her own conclusions and he doesn’t correct her, she's laying a different game to him.

That night, Alex decides to publish. He’s not sure he cares to change the names.

 

 

 

**24 th of December 2016**

It’s a small mercy that the sofa in his office at the Capitol is comfy enough to sleep on. Ever since word of the book got out, Washington hasn’t quite managed to remain objective in handing out privileges, and Alex has lost the right to crash in the spare room Martha keeps made up for strapped politicians.

Eliza won’t look at him, won’t even speak to him. If he wants to see the kids he has to organise something through Philip and the nanny. Which is fine, more or less, but he’s not allowed to sleep under the same roof as them. He should probably have seen this coming a mile off but where’s the fun in moving cautiously? He’s a great writer and this book is no exception, it needs to be published, Eliza’s feelings be damned.

Alex tries to focus on his work and sees a pair of dark eyes, furious and unflinching as they marched him to the door and threw him out. Told him not to come back.

He’ll be back. Soon. She’ll see. And then he’ll have to pray that inspiration never strikes, lest Eliza find out about John and Jefferson, and that’s before Alex has worked out where her sister sits in this mess.

There’s a knock at the door, predictably enough it’s Jefferson. He looks round the room with distaste, looking like a man who has encountered an unpleasant smell. “What are you doing in this dump?”

Alex spares him a withering look. Jefferson shrugs and throws the door open wide, “it’s Christmas. You can’t stay here.”

“I don’t have anywhere else to go.”

“And I’m not being cute. This ain’t the White House, you legit need to leave or someone’s gonna boot you out.” Jefferson nods towards the door, “there are sofas at mine.”

It’s too much, far too obviously a kindness. Alex bristles but can’t think of any good reason to say no. If Eliza didn’t want him doing this shit she wouldn’t have thrown him out. 

“How’s the wife?” Jefferson asks in the backseat of his chauffer driven car, smirk barely hidden.

Alex shakes his head, his energy and patience for the subject of his infidelity long exhausted. Jefferson hesitates for a moment before throwing an arm around him and pulling him into an awkward sort of half hug, nattering about the magnificence of his health care bill all the way home.

 

 

 

**25 th of December 2016**

Christmas with the Jefferson’s is entirely unlike anything Alex has seen before. For one, there are no children to entertain. Jefferson has one daughter in her mid-twenties who is witty and adroit, arriving late enough in the morning that lunch is well on the way to being cooked and pyjamas have been dispensed with by the timee she's through the door.

Alex is dressed in a pair of three quarter length suit trousers that belong to Jefferson and reach to his ankles, along with a t-shirt for an experimental rap group he’s never heard of.

“You like clipping?” Jefferson’s daughter, Patsy, asks excitedly when she sees the shirt.

Jefferson laughs and sticks on a double album of Christmas choral music. It comes through the sound system loud and clear, ready to be torn to pieces by father and daughter.

“These sopranos can't enunciate to save their lives!”

“Tell me about it. But hey, at least they can hit all the notes, I have no idea what the counter tenors are doing.”

They eat goose instead of turkey, watch Die Hard instead of the Wizard of Oz, and Alex gets a silk tie that was no doubt pulled from the back of Jefferson’s wardrobe in place of his customary mug. He doesn’t think about the expanses of the apartment that remain unfilled by family and children, and he doesn’t listen too hard for the sound of kids falling over each other to reach their next present.

Time loses track of itself somewhere in between Jefferson playing a one man rendition of Vivaldi’s winter on the violin and Patsy getting invited out for drinks with some old university friends. Alex doesn’t remember anyone changing the disc but the speakers have switched from O Come All Ye Faithful to Let It Snow and it’s nice to have something familiar to latch onto in the middle of so much that is new.

Jefferson grabs Alex by the hand and whirls him round the kitchen, his afro more mussed than usual from extensive sessions lying on the couch.

“It was a good book,” he mumbles, drawing Alex in close.

This would be the moment, Alex thinks, that he would ask if it was all worth it. What should he have sacrificed to keep a steady tiller on his family life? He already knows Jefferson’s answer – nothing. 

You can’t sacrifice a thing, not if you really wanna breathe free. Jefferson holds these truths to be self-evident, you take what you want and you hold it tight until you want something else. It’s easier for people who don’t want everything all at once.

Dancing becomes kissing and kissing becomes messy blowjobs on the sofa. It’s fine and it’s nice and it’s awful, not that Alex is really thinking about it. For now, this can be enough.


End file.
